Page 35 of Rescuing Dr. Marian
I stepped closer. “The other night, in here. You kept cutting me off, saying we should keep it professional.” Frustration bled through my words. “I wanted to explain everything, but you made it clear you didn’t want to hear it.”
Foster tossed the keys on the nightstand and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Fuck. I thought—Jesus, I thought you were married. I thought you were just looking for some guy to screw around with while your wife was back home.”
“I would never do that,” I said, surprised by how much his assumption hurt. “I’m not that kind of person.”
His eyes met mine, something raw and vulnerable flickering there. “You’re the kind of person who kisses someone else, on the eve of his fucking wedding.”
Foster’s accusation punched the breath out of me. I movedto the edge of my bed and fell onto it, accidentally dropping my water bottle and watching it roll under Foster’s bed.
The feeling of the blankets under me reminded me how tired I was. I wanted to crawl under the covers and sleep for twenty-four hours. But that wasn’t an option. I was still on the clock.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I said, forcing myself back up and over to the drawers to grab clean clothes. If I sat on the bed any longer, I’d pass out. And if I stayed here trying to defend myself to him anymore, I’d lose all self-respect.
When I reached for the bathroom doorknob, I felt Foster’s big body step up behind me. “Tommy, wait.”
I didn’t turn around. “Wait for what, Foster? You obviously don’t know me, and I get it. I’d probably think the same thing about me if I were you. But I’m not a cheater. Well, maybe it would be more accurate to say I’d never cheated on anyone until that night, and I thought I did a pretty damned good job of keeping myself from doing what I actually wanted to do with you.”
“I thought you were married,” he repeated, his voice softer now.
I turned to face him, noticing something desperate in his expression, like he was trying to rewrite six months of assumptions in real time.
The weight of our misunderstanding settled between us. All the walls Foster had built, all the professional distance—it had been based on a lie. On assumptions neither of us had bothered to correct.
“But I’m not.”
“So you’re… single,” he said, like he was testing the words. His eyes searched mine.
“Very,” I confirmed. “Have been since Hawaii.”
“Because of me?”
The question hung in the air like a challenge. I could lie, make it about my career or cold feet or a dozen other safer explanations. But Foster Blake had changed my life that night in Hawaii. Changed it for the better. He deserved the truth.
“Yes,” I said quietly. “Because of you. I knew I’d never see you again, but you gave me a glimpse of something amazing, and I couldn’t go back to the life I’d planned.”
Foster’s chest rose and fell rapidly. I could practically see him recalibrating, adjusting his entire understanding of our situation.
I hesitated, then added, “It shouldn’t have been because of you. There were obviously things wrong in my relationship I’d chosen not to see. But I can honestly say I would’ve gone right on ignoring them and married her that weekend if I hadn’t met you.” I took a step closer, my heart hammering. “That night made me realize what I’d been missing. Because kissing you felt more real than anything I’d experienced in ten years with her.”
Foster’s breath hitched. His eyes dropped to my mouth for just a second before meeting my gaze again. Something flickered across his face—want, hope, fear—and the air between us felt electric, charged with possibility. For a moment, I thought he might close the distance between us, might kiss me the way he had on that Hawaiian beach.
Instead, he stepped back, though I could see the effort it cost him. “But it wasn’t real,” he muttered.
I suddenly realized this man had the ability to cut me deeper than anyone else I knew. And what was worse? He did it quietly and without warning.
“And you think it’s my family who has no right to hurt me,” I murmured through lips that felt numb.
I turned back to the bathroom door.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said, his deep voice unmistakably defensive and petulant. “You’re leaving. Moving back to California.”
“You’re right, Foster.” I turned to close the door and met his eyes before the door closed completely. “It doesn’t matter.”
When I stepped under the shower, I tried not to think about the look on his face as I’d closed the door.
Because if I allowed myself to believe there was even a single part of him that still wanted me, I would put myself in a position to let him hurt me again.
And being hurt by Foster Blake was a new kind of hell.
